“al fresco.”
crab crusted halibut with braised artichoke hearts, shaved asparagus, spring pea and citrus vinaigrette; cheddar-bacon biscuit and joel gott cabernet sauvignon in the background.
I think I’d eat every meal outside, if I could. Under the stars, in the sun, feeling the breeze, watching crowds walk or stand or run by. [I suppose this is in a world where it is a perpetual summer. No one likes to eat outside in the cold.]
Perhaps the affinity for food al fresco is due to the endless memory I associate with it.
There was my first outdoor dining experience – in Maine, of course – when my parents and the parents of our close family friends deemed we children old enough to dine alone. We walked triumphantly to the center of that safe little town, perched ourselves on the raised porch of La Pizzeria, and ordered slices of cheese pizza. My cousin doused his triangle in half the container of parmesan cheese, and we four chowed together in the sun, in summer, in a first taste of independence.
There was picnicking in high school, in the park behind a good friend’s house, where we carried chocolate chip cookies and buttered popcorn onto the grass, eventually forgetting the food to pelt each other with water balloons. Khaki shorts and braided hair dripping, we felt nothing but carefree: in our teens, but still young.
There was the first – of many – sidewalk meals in Europe. Visiting a close friend in Parisian October, we settled on a table in the Latin Quarter, sipping wine at 19 years old for the pure enjoyment of accompanying dinner with some red. The menu was devoid of English, and so I ordered my crepe half blind. I do recall that I recognized the words for “chocolate mousse” later in that meal. The air felt unseasonably warm that night. I felt older.
There were afternoons spent with my fashion editor boss, when we’d break for twenty minutes, simultaneously exhausted and invigorated by hours of lugging Ikea bags stuffed with Miu Miu and Dior and a little H&M across Prague’s center. We would sit outside in coats at Coffee Heaven, the Eastern European version of Starbucks, and she would smoke her brown cigarette, and I would sip an Americano, skipping lunch.
And then, there was last Friday night at Cafeteria, passed with my sister to celebrate the end of a work week and to share a few moments together outside our apartment walls. We honored our family mantra of experiencing the restaurant, and so we sat outside, as half of Cafeteria’s space exists on the sidewalk of Seventh Avenue. A bottle of Napa cabernet between us, we shared our food, cleaned our plates, and occupied our table far past sunset.
I always seem to remember al fresco meals just a little bit better than others, as though I am really in the world, rather than hidden inside four walls.
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ooooh yeah. your descriptive memories help me to conjure up my own: the first solo outdoor dining experience of my youth occurred at the hudson street diner. i ate curly fries and drank a soda and sat outside with two of my friends. luckily the diner was within the three block radius that us fifth graders could roam. the fries were sickeningly greasy but oh-so-good. i probably washed them down with a sprite. or a water, because i wanted to save money. i do remember not knowing how to tip correctly and being extremely nervous when the check came. the fact that it was our responsibility to pay – no parents in sight! – was terrifying.
thanks for the little trip down memory lane, miss leslie. i think reading quality writing makes the memory more vivid for me. aaand cafeteria is fun, no? they do have a few stunna dishes on their menu and seem to prepare foods in a somewhat healthy manner. diggin’ it.